


five times bond slept on Q’s couch

by sharkplant



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Domestic, James Bond Being James Bond, M/M, Q gets overwhelmed sometimes and it mostly comes out as snark, as domestic as you can get with those involved with national security and international espionage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 06:43:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkplant/pseuds/sharkplant
Summary: and one time in Q’s bed(rating will go up as necessary)





	five times bond slept on Q’s couch

**Author's Note:**

> this was an idea i was playing with back in 2012 when skyfall came out in cinemas and for no reason i can understand, i am obsessed with craig's bond again so enjoy this. i promise to finish this (i know my previous track record with chapter fics but i have a plan this time!)
> 
> un'beta'd

>                i.

                More often than not, Q has genuinely considered removing the sensor lights in the kitchen. Were he living entirely alone, he would appreciate not having to blearily grope the wall in order to fix himself a glass of water in the middle of the nights he actually sleeps and sleeps at home. In actuality, he has two cats that insist on running the length and breadth of the apartment at nonsense hours which causes the kitchen light to flicker at the least appropriate of times.

                On this occasion, though, with one cat snoozing on his toes and the other purring against his side, Q would very much like to know why his kitchen light is on at 3:48 am.

                He pushes up his glasses and gently tries to extract himself from his position as live feline pillow, leaving his laptop near his own. He, gently unsticking Maggie’s claws from the threadbare tee he passes as a pyjama top, arms himself with a pen-taser prototype and pads barefoot into the hall.

                He doesn’t have to use his new toy because it isn’t a burglar or an assassin. Well. Maybe that. Just not one meant for him. MI6’s often-too-rogue-to-be-golden-boy 007 is leaning against the counter top, breathing heavily like he’d been to Hell and back. And if memory served, his latest mission had been to Mogadishu. So yes, Hell and back. ‘Bond, why are you bleeding on my lino at four in the morning?’

                ‘Because the fucker had a sneaky uppercut-‘

                ‘And he got you on the snoz.’

                Bond sniffed by way of laughing, face lined in little red cuts, right eye beginning to bruise under the swelling, a thick rivulet of blood running from his nose. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’ Bond wet his lips. ‘Got any tissues?’ Q shuffled over to offer the box from the coffee table, pocketing his unneeded self-defense. ‘Nice pajamas.’ Bond added, taking a few sheets and wadding it with bloodied fingers before shoving it unceremoniously up his nose.

                ‘I’d appreciate if you didn’t insult my sleepwear after breaking into my flat. As would I appreciate you using the door.’ Q moved to the kettle. He needed tea, and judging by the state 007 was in, he did too. Would likely prefer something stronger. ‘It’s just good manners.’ Q took down two mugs from the cupboard. ‘Besides I doubt yours are any better.’

                ‘I don’t wear them typically.’ Bond’s voice may have been made a little more nasal with the equivalent of a makeshift tampon shoved up one nostril, but it still sent something down Q’s spine. _I’d very much like to see that._ He’s half tempted to ask if that was an intended flirtation or if it’s just a by-product of adrenaline and natural charisma.

                Q changed the subject.

                ‘How do you even know where I live?’

                Bond shrugged. ‘You won’t get very far keeping secrets from spies.’

                ‘You should be at a hospital. Or better yet, medical. At least there they don’t ask questions.’

                ‘I’m surprised you haven’t.’

                ‘What?’

                ‘Isn’t this normally where people ask “what happened to you?”?’

                'You’ll have to write up a field report eventually, I’ll find out then.’ Bond was holding himself up against the sink, avoiding pressure on his left leg. ‘That being said, what happened to your leg?’ Q turned, crossing his arms.

                The corners of Bond's lips turned up at Q taking the bait. ‘Stabbed. On home soil, nonetheless. This all happened after I touched down from Somalia. Turns out some of Nemirovich’s friends don’t like me too much.’

                ‘How lovely.’ The kettle clicked. Q went about fixing tea. He spoke into the fridge, pulling out the milk. ‘I only know basic first aid so I don’t know how much good I’ll do you.’

                ‘Well I much prefer your company to that of the white coats in medical.’

                ‘Be nice. Some of my best friends are white coats.’ He handed Bond his mug. ‘Careful its hot,’ he finished, raising his brows to keep himself from smiling.

                Bond did it for him. ‘Cheek.’

                ‘Make yourself at home,’ Q said, ducking into the bathroom for the first-aid kit. When he returned, Bond had seated himself on the countertop like a teenager, impassively stroking a very fluffy grey scottish-fold. Q riffled through the plastic box, pulling out bandages, gauze, antiseptic. ‘He’s not meant to be on the counter, you know.’

                ‘What’s his name?’

                ‘Alan.’

                ‘Turing?’

                ‘Naturally.’

                ‘And the other one?’ Bond looked in the direction of the settee.

                ‘Maggie.’

                ‘Thatcher?’

                ‘Hamilton.’

                ‘Who?’

                ‘Inventor of the first software program.’

                ‘And what did the program do?’

                ‘Got mankind on the moon.’

                ‘Well then.’ Bond scratched Alan behind the ear to a very loud purr.

                Q almost smiled, sitting up on his knees to attempt medical care on a double-o, and in other, less bloody circumstances, Q would very much like this view. Maybe get the cat out of the way too. But then pushed up the cuff of Bond’s trousers, caught sight of the wound several inches long and maybe an inch deep into his left calf. ‘Fuck me. You climbed the fire escape with this?’

                ‘I’ve had worse.’

                Q just gaped for a second. His eyes prickled at a stubbed toe. But this was why he was the quartermaster and Bond was the field agent. Takes all kinds to make a government intelligence organisation. He stood up. Bond raised an eyebrow, comical given the cat content in his arms. ‘Going to make a salt soak. I don’t think antiseptics are going to cut it.’ Q dumped a handful of salt in a bowl, added the rest of the water from the kettle and scrounged for a clean tea towel.

                Bond hissed at first contact.

                ‘You’ve had worse.’ Q re-soaked the cloth, the water turning a faint pink.

                Bond laughed properly. ‘Snarky little shit.’

                Q bit back a smile. He dried the area. ‘Hand me three of the gauze packets and the roll of medical tape.’ Bond took a moment before passing them down wordlessly.

                It was simple enough: hold the wound together, rip open and lay gauze, use more tape than necessary to keep everything together. It wasn’t clean, but it worked. Finally, Q grabbed the long tan bandage off the counter, winding it carefully around Bond’s leg, covering up his MacGyver attempt at health care with neat wrapping. ‘It’s not going to heal pretty, but you won’t lose your leg.’

                Bond chuckled and Q felt more than a little proud that the agent was so loose with him, that he could elicit a true laugh. ‘Think I’m a little past pretty by this point.’

                ‘I disagree.’ Bond gave him a look of pleasant surprise and well shit that just fell out of his face hadn’t it. ‘You would hardly be able to whore yourself for Queen and Country if you weren’t.’

                ‘Whoring, am I?’

                Q couldn’t envision any good way this conversation might go. He stood and handed the cooling salt water bowl to Bond. ‘You’ve got blood all over your face. You’re welcome to the settee. There’s cushions and a blanket. I’m down the hall if you’re dying.’

                Bond nodded.

                Q waited for a question, a comment. Nothing. Great. He nodded to Bond.

                ‘Double-oh-seven.’

                ‘Q.’

                And with that he grabbed his now lukewarm tea and went back to bed, saving and slotting his laptop on the nightstand.

* * *

                At 7:36 am, Q put on socks before going into the kitchen. His hair was a mess from what he could gather passing the hallway mirror and he tried to right it, absently scratching his thigh before having a heart-attack.

                Bond was leaning against his kitchen again, less bloody and less clothed. Shirtless, he chewed on a scavenged bowl of cornflakes. ‘Morning.’ It was fantasy made real, but slightly off centre and just out of reach. Q blinked at him before going to the kettle.

                'Your eye looks awful.'

                'Your bags aren't much better.'

                Q frowned. ‘Thought you would have slipped out before dawn.’

                ‘Hadn’t gotten the chance to rifle through your cupboards yet. Say, what do you keep in your medicine cabinet?’

                Q may have been a student less than two years ago and seen and done a number of questionable things, may have been the head of the research and development department at the country’s top secret service agency, may have been subjected to a kind of hazing at both establishments (although the former was formal protocol-driven torture training, the other was because fuck you), Q wasn’t anywhere near prepared to be having this conversation.

                ‘I’m going back to bed. Don’t let the cats out when you leave. And use the front door his time.’

**Author's Note:**

> i love that the fandom has collectively agreed that one of Q's cats is named some variant of Alan Turing.


End file.
